


Keep Counting

by ahhhhrexa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FC Barcelona, Football | Soccer, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6222010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhhhrexa/pseuds/ahhhhrexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The drumming lingers. It's softer now. It’s like a bug crawling up and down his skin; its feet causing the hairs to rise and the goosebumps to show. He shivers. The fear has settled in him. It’s a fear that he’s had since he was a kid; a fear he can’t quite escape.</p><p>It’s too much for him. But what can he do? It’s been there all his life.</p><p>“Come on, Luis.”</p><p>The voice is soft and kind. It’s tone gently prods at him, soothing him inside like a salve. The texture of the three words breaches the walls built by the drumming. The power of it reaches into him and caresses him. He’s at once filled with warmth.</p><p>He looks up and to his surprise, he finds the speaker to be Andres Iniesta.</p><p>The older man is smiling. It is open and honest.</p><p>It's beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Counting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm new to the Archive of Our Own family. I'm happy to say that I finally have the inspiration to write again.

_Uno._

_Dos._

_Tres._

_Breathe._

He counts.

_Uno._

_Dos._

_Tres._

_Breathe._

He has to keep counting.

It's the only way to keep him steady. When he counts, he doesn't wander off into the oblivion of the music. At least not fully. He breathes in and out. He likes to think he is exhaling the bad and inhaling the good. He chooses to think that this a sort of therapy, a way out, and path to freedom from the past that haunts him still. But he isn't so sure because he can hear the sound of drums. There’s a constant beat after beat, getting louder and louder as it reverberates off the walls of the locker room, and crashes into his chest.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Louder.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

And louder.

Crash.

Crash.

Crash.

And even louder.

The outside world is silent even though he can see shadowy figures move in and out of the room, forward and backward, side to side in front of him. He sees what looks to be shoes being tied, shirts taken on and off, locker doors opened and closed. He’s not alone. He knows his new teammates and his new coaches are here with him. He's here too.

_Just not present._

Inside of him the roar of the drum is calling for something. It's calling for war. The pulse of the instrument clogs his ears. He can feel his heart pound hard in attempt to catch up to the beat, but it fails. The beat has a mind of its own. It escalates in power and in speed. The waves of sound clash with his heart, with his mind; pulling remnants of competency and tissue as it retreats only to come back with an even harder push.

It’s too much for him. But what can he do? It’s been there all his life.

“Hey.”

POP.

His ears burst.

POP.

He grimaces.

There’s a ringing in his ears. It’s so sharp that it stings him. It was as if the ringing irritated old wounds. It was agitating him in its ferocity. He could try to cover his ears, but he would still hear the ringing. He would still feel the drums.

One ring.

_Pain._

Two rings.

_Fear._

Three rings.

_Grief._

The beating of the drum slows into a steady pace. What the symphony of drums once called for war has now turned to a plea; a plea for survival. It is desperate. There is so much space between him and those he loves. Each step forward was a beat of the drum. Each step backward was a ringing in his ears.

It’s too much for him. But what can he do? It’s been there all his life.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

“Let’s go.”

He finally notices a hand on his shoulder. He stares at it and proceeds to examine each finger, each knuckle, each freckle on the pale skin. They look like gentle hands. They are probably soft to touch. He figures they were made to caress rather than to hit. These hands belong to someone better than him. They didn’t belong to a man filled with turmoil. Not like him.

_Is there any man out there like him?_

The ringing stops, but the drumming remains. He tries shrugging it off. He didn’t know what it was. Perhaps it was to take the hand off of him or maybe it was a poor attempt to throw away the hardship that weighs down on him. He doesn’t know for sure. He just can’t allow whomever it was to touch him. Not with those hands that look like they belong to someone pure. He can’t let those hands be contaminated by his poison.

_He wasn’t pure._

“Time to train.”

_Train?_

One blink.

Two blinks.

Three blinks.

He lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding in. It feels like he’s kept his eyes open for too long. It was just that he wasn’t seeing anything. He tries to regain focus, but nothing stuck. Everything's blurry. Each color of each object were mixing and he couldn't tell the difference between them.

_What is all this?_

He quickly shuts his eyes and opens them.

One blink.

Two blinks.

Three blinks.

Things were a bit clearer now. The brightness of the light made him squint. The red lockers looked more vibrant. Each thing was no longer combined, no longer mixed, and now more easily defined.

It was just him. Him and whomever was speaking.

_That’s right._

He trains.

Football is important. That’s his life. That’s the balm to his wounds. Football brought him off the streets. It brought him to Europe. It brought him to Sofi. It brought him his children. It brought him here to Barcelona.

_Barcelona._

The drumming lingers. It's softer now. It’s like a bug crawling up and down his skin; its feet causing the hairs to rise and the goosebumps to show. He shivers. The fear has settled in him. It’s a fear that he’s had since he was a kid; a fear he can’t quite escape.

It’s too much for him. But what can he do? It’s been there all his life.

“Come on, Luis.”

The voice is soft and kind. It’s tone gently prods at him, soothing him inside like a salve. The texture of the three words breaches the walls built by the drumming. The power of it reaches into him and caresses him. He’s at once filled with warmth.

He looks up and to his surprise, he finds the speaker to be Andres Iniesta.

The older man is smiling. It is open and honest.

_It's beautiful._

“Today,” Iniesta starts.

Their eyes meet.

One blink.

_Assurance._

Two blinks.

_Concern._

Three blinks.

_Love._

Luis is stunned at the wisdom in the other man’s gaze. The kindness radiates out of them. They held no confusion, no distaste, no distrust, and most importantly, no fear. In fact, it looked like he understood. He didn’t think anyone else could understand.

Of all people why would it seem that he could understand.

Andres laughs and removes his hand.

“Today is going to be a good day.”

He wonders if he can move. If he tries, the drumming would get louder. The ringing will return in full force. He would be back to where it all began. He'd be stuck the hole that he was born in; the hole that he dug himself into. He'd never see the light. He'd try to grasp at it; trying to hold something so alive, but he'd fail and fall back into the dirt, alone and weak.

One ring.

_Damn it._

Two rings.

_Shit._

Three rings.

_Puta madre._

His head will hurt. His heart will race. His soul will be wounded yet again. He doesn’t have the strength.

It’s all too much for him. But what can he do? It’s been there-

“Did you hear me, Luis?”

Once more, Andres’ voice comes surging through, pushing down the invading doubts and instilling a sense of something within him.

What is it?

His brows furrow.

Something familiar. There must be something. His mind scours through memories of their past meetings. He flips through every mental page. What did he file away so long ago? What did he have to protect? What did he have so little of?

Then it clicks.

_Hope._

He slowly nods not in resignation, but in acceptance.

It’s all too much for him. This. Andres. Barcelona. Stability. Friendship. Hope. Love.

Turns out it was someone else that can do something about it all.

The drumming is gone. He can get used to this welcome silence being there all his life.

_Uno._

_Dos._

_Tres._

_Breathe._

He returns a smile back at Andres.

“Yeah, today will be a good day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
